


Where'd you Go?

by SpeckledCoffeeCups



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Emotions, For Chi, Gen, Ghost!Laurens, dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 08:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9226055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeckledCoffeeCups/pseuds/SpeckledCoffeeCups
Summary: John Laurens doesn't know what has happened to him, or why he's in this situation.And then the letter comes.--For Chiscribbles4smiles on tumblr!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiscribbles4smiles](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=chiscribbles4smiles).



> For Chiscribbles4smiles on Tumblr. She created the ghost!laurens au and I had to write this! If this gets a good response I might make this a full length fic of adventures of ghost John and the Hamiltons.   
> Thank you for reading!

Little Philip is young and pure, giggling and babbling like a baby does.  He pushes the tin soldiers across the rug in Alexander’s study as John sat with the child. He makes grabby hands and gurgles when the soldier he pushed went through John’s thigh.  He can’t grab it, he’s intangible to the rest of the world.

Except little Philip. The baby grabs the edge of his breeches and tugs roughly as he pouts for his toy.  John laughs and tugs playfully on the child’s curls, making him erupt in a fit of giggles.  Alexander glances back at his son, a smile on his lips.

“What is it son?” He asks sweetly pushing his chair back as the door opens.  Eliza peers in, face undiscernible. 

“Alexander? Can you spare a moment?” She asks making her way into the small room. She scoops the baby up, standing on John as she does so.  The shiver that runs through his body is violent when she finally leaves him.  He breathes deeply and swallows. 

He’s still not use to that, whatever that is.  He doesn’t know anything about what’s going on.  Why can’t Alex see him? His best friend?  They were thick as thieves, inseparable even at Yorktown, where John pulled him into a bone crushing hug when they saw the white flag waving for surrender.

 _“We won! We won!”_  he remembers shouting over the thunder in the camp.  _“We won!  It’s over, we can go home!”_

“What do you need love?” Alexander asks standing slowly. “Are you unwell-“

“It’s a letter,” She breathes holding her son with one arm his baby head resting on her shoulder.  Philip makes a sound when John pushes himself to his feet. He should leave them be, give them privacy.

“If it’s from John Laurens I can read it later,” He says and moves to stand next to her, pressing a kiss first to her forehead then his son’s cheek. 

“It’s from his father.” Eliza closes her eyes and presses her cheek to Philip’s head.  John raises an eyebrow as he passes over the thresh hold.

His father?

Alexander asks that very question and another after wetting his lips. “Will you read it?”

Eliza nods and shifts her grip on the child as she unfolds the paper. She closes her eyes tightly and worries her lip.  She’s read this already, five times over before bringing it to Alexander. She breathes out slowly.

“On Tuesday the 27th, my son was killed in a gunfight against British troops retreating from South Carolina.”

Eliza continues to read the letter, but John’s heart drops.  He’s dead?

He’s…. Dead. Not here, gone. But how is he here? He presses his palms to his forehead, his rash personality getting the best of him. 

He can’t be! Dead? Than what is this? Is it hell? Being able to watch his best friend grow old with his wife, and child? Never meeting his child? He left them oh god he left them alone. His legs pull him from the house and onto the front lawn where he retches and dry heaves until his stomach calms itself. He stumbles to his feet and pushes himself away from the house. Screw this he can’t stay around; he can’t do this. 

This is a dream, a really awful dream that he _has_ to wake up from.  He pushes his way off the property, his mind running at 200 miles per hour, while his body trudges along until he reaches a thicket on the edge of the property. He pushes through, the brush passing through him causing him to violently shiver, tense and shake until his body pitches forward, throwing him onto his hands and knees, scraping skin away. 

His hands and knees bleed but he doesn’t care.  He has to get out of here, out of this place, this situation.  He closes his eyes tightly, his face scrunching up until his lips part and he screams.  He screams and hollers and cries, tears violently carving a path down his cheeks.

“Fuck!  Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He shouts loudly swing his hands out, begging for puncture.  He hits a fallen trunk, bruising his knuckles, and making them swell. He curses again just as loud before he sucks down a ragged breath.

“Just fuck,” He pushes his palm across his cheek, smearing blood and tears across his cheekbones like warrior paint. 

That’s all he knows; fighting, and running and fighting more until his body aches and his muscles are sore.  All he knows is Alexander, and the Marquis, and Hercules and their general.  He doesn’t do domestic; he ran like a coward last time he was faced with that.  He ran as far as he could, across the sea, and ultimately to his death.

He sucks down another breath, this time a pain striking him hard in the chest.  He gasps and pitches forward his left hand fumbling on his jacket and shirt.  He curses again and shouts out when his arm gives out under him.

This pain is excruciating, like he’s burning up from the inside.  It’s runs in his veins and through his body, burning everything in its path until his body feels dry and worn, and then runs its course again.  Tears spill down his cheeks and he sucks in ragged breaths while sweat beads on his forehead.  Eventually it all vanishes and he’s left feeling numb and worn. He slowly pushes himself onto his back, his shirt clinging to his sweat coated skin.

One hand slowly grasps at the origin of the pain, a pin point in his ribs, near his heart.  His shirt is wet and sticky and when he looks down, it’s red and soaked with blood.  He shudders and pulls his hand away from the blood.

Okay so he’s dead.  He can accept that, but not the separation from Heaven.  He did everything right, was kind, devoted himself to the word, and served his country.

Hell he died for his country.

He shudders when he strips his navy Continental jacket from his shoulders, and also pulls his shirt and cravat off. They lay discarded at his side as he continues to strip until bare, before slipping into the river and ducking his head under.  He scrubs furiously at his skin and hair, rinsing the Patriot away and pulling on this new fate.  He’s dead.  And that’s not changing. 

He can mope about and sit in the corner crying because his life was taken too soon, which it was (those men were braver than some soldiers he fought alongside.  They deserved their freedom).

Or he can behave as a guardian to the littlest Hamilton, giving him a role model to grow and learn from.

He breaks the surface of the river from where he’s sitting.  Rocks dig into his ass and thighs but it doesn’t bother him.  He reaches for his shirt and pulls it into the river as he works the blood out of the fabric. 

It takes time, and muscle to finally get the blood out.  He thinks a lot of his life while he scrubs and his skin prunes in the chilly water.   He thinks of the Marquis and what their French friend is doing at his home.  He said there was speak of a revolution for his country, but did it happen?  How old is Georges Washington and Anastasia? Are they going to grow up to be like their pére, strong willed and a little reckless, or like their mother, kind hearted and stern?

And Hercules? He had a son and wife.  Is she pregnant again, he knows Hercules always wanted a large family.  Did he finally meet back with Cato and find out he was okay? Did he finally finish that stupid dress he was working on for over three weeks?

Martha… will she forgive him for leaving her alone with their daughter, a daughter he’s never met.  He insisted they name her Frances for his dear friend, but is she ever going to hear all the stories about the two of them.  Sneaking around the streets of Europe hands pressed together tightly while they drank too much alcohol and laughed too loudly.  Or the time Frances dared him to bribe a sailor into surrendering his boat for the day because Frances just had to show him this little Island a mile off the coast. 

Alexander. The one person he thinks of constantly, more so than his wife, but who will never know he’s there.  He wants to see him one last time, apologize for crushing his heart in his chest, because he knows Alexander and knows when he’s upset.  He knows what sets his friend off and how the storms the previous summer left him shaking as he read the correspondence for Washington.  He knows he can’t drink too much or he’ll just start crying and talking in a trilingual blend of Spanish, French and English. 

He knows Alexander loves people with his whole heart, leaving nothing for question.  He knows he hurt him indirectly with his death.  He brushes his wet hand across his cheek as more tears fall.  God he didn’t want to hurt him, he just wanted to free these men and give them a chance!

He brushes away more tears before sucking down a breath and standing in the river, his legs shaky.  The sun is setting on the horizon casting everything in a golden light. Tossing his shirt over a rock he lets it dry as much as it can while he tugs his other clothes on.  He grabs his cravat but can’t find his jacket. He scans the area closely looking for the prominent navy color of his coat. His eyes flit over it for a moment before they rest on it. 

The navy threads are now pristine white, with gold buttons, tailored to his body.  He grabs it from where it is draped over a branch and brushes off the bark and leaves.  It’s beautiful, and although his heart yearns for the blue of his army uniform, he knows the white will grow on him. He reaches for his shirt, surprised to find it dry and folded neatly.  He glances around the area, expecting someone to be there.  Another person like him? Trapped here?

Nothing.  He’s not surprised, but he has hopes. 

He pulls the shirt on and readjusts his cravat and jacket before tugging his boots on.  Lastly his finger combs his hair and tugs it back into his familiar fluffy pony tail before starting back towards the Hamilton Estate. 

It doesn’t take long, the thicket is only a hundred or so yards from the estate.  When he makes it to the front steps he raises a hand to knock, before just shaking his head, wet droplets falling to the ground. He pushes himself through the door, and can hear Alexander’s hushed Caribbean tones alongside Eliza’s rich rolling Northern syllables. His own Southern Drawl would flow along these walls beautifully. 

“I have to work,”

“Alexander-“

“Please. I have so much to do.” He murmurs.  Eliza steps from the study slowly, holding baby Philip to her chest.  The baby gurgles and waves to John as he walks away from him. He slides into the room and see’s Alexander hunched over a desk, much like he was during the war.  The door clicks into place and the next moment he slowly pulls letters from the top left draw.  It doesn’t take long for John to recognize his handwriting and the Laurens’ seal.

Their correspondence.  All of it.  Alex cracks the seal on one of the letters as he re reads the words.  He starts off slowly but it doesn’t take long for him to frantically read through the words, his lips shaping to the words as tears start to flow freely. 

“My dearest Laurens,” He whispers before steeling himself and tying the letters and tucking them into the bottom right draw.  He swallows and sits up straight before jumping back into his writing, tears still flowing, but he continues to write.  John reaches to him, placing one hand on his shoulder, surprised when it doesn’t pass through.  He takes the chance and squeezes softly.

Alex shivers before tilting his head up. “John?” He breathes the name like a prayer. John breathes low and takes the chance to wrap his arms completely around his friend, being able to hold him tightly for only a moment.

“I’m sorry Alexander,” He whispers and presses his cheek fiercely to Alex’s. Alex sucks in a breath and grabs John’s hand tightly.

“Laurens,” and both men shudder and then John’s done.  He can’t feel his friend’s warmth anymore, and that realization hurts almost more than dying.   Tears flow down John’s cheek freely again and he rubs them away again.

He’s cried so much today, but it’s okay.  He’s here, he can befriend Philip, and watch Alex live his life and maybe, one day he can see him again. 

He swallows past a hot knot of emotion as the door to his study opens.  Alex sits straighter and quickly brushes his tears away as Eliza moves into the room, little Philip screaming and shrieking like he’s just been hit.

“Alex I can’t get him to stop, I think he wants you,” She tries shushing the baby, tears flowing down her cheeks.  Alexander pushes his chair aside and pulls his child from Eliza’s arms pressing a kiss to her face, lips lingering a moment, as he shudders again.

“He’s gone isn’t he.” He asks softly and Eliza nods, running a hand across his waist.

“He’s just away for a time.” She reassures, but her tears still fall. “You’ll see him again,” She presses a kiss to his mouth chastely before pressing another kiss to Philips head.  He’s still screaming and crying and Alex bounces him softly on his hip.

“Come on Philip, what’s got you so worked up?” He murmurs.  John watches and wants to back away, but the moment Alex turns to pace with the child, he stops.  Philip meets his eyes, and his screaming quiets down to just a whimper and a tremble of his lips. “See nothing, to cry over,” Alex teases, but it sounds so sad and unlike him.  Eliza squeezes his shoulder and steps out with a word about dinner. This is his new life, and even if he doesn’t know what to expect, he can get use to it.

“Daddy loves you Philip.  Please don’t break my heart son,” Alexander murmurs holding the baby to him. John watches and breathes low.

“Please don’t kiddo.  He needs ya,”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @weehawken-dawngunsdrawn


End file.
